


Farewell Gift

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Bazhir, Cultural Differences, Duty, Gen, Gift, Honor, Knight & Squire, Midwinter, Pride, References to Canon Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:19:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: King Jonathan gives Zahir a gift to celebrate his knighthood.





	Farewell Gift

Farewell Gift

“May I come in, Sir Zahir?” King Jonathan knocked on the door to what had once been Zahir’s room in the royal quarters. Glancing up from the trunk he was filling with clothes from his dresser drawers, Zahir thought this gesture was doubly unnecessary since not only did the room no longer belong to him now that he was knighted but the door was open. 

“Of course. The room isn’t even mine any more, sire.” Zahir nodded and didn’t add a dry comment on how he couldn’t have denied the king entrance even when it had been his room. His former knightmaster was not the sort of man who could be refused with impunity. There was too much of an air of authority about him to allow much thwarting of his will. 

“I have something for you.” King Jonathan stepped across the threshold, and Zahir noticed for the first time that the king’s arms were tucked behind his back as if concealing a present. 

“I don’t accept bribery.” Zahir spoke stiffly, uncomfortable as ever in the face of royal generosity. His honor didn’t permit him to accept any gift that might be construed as a bribe much as his pride prevented him from acknowledging that his former knightmaster didn’t need to bribe him to secure his loyalty for life. He was constrained by the twin forces of his rigid honor and pride that gave him the maneuverability of manacles. 

“It’s not bribery.” King Jonathan’s eyes twinkled like wintry stars as if he could sense Zahir’s thoughts and perhaps he could through the sacred, invisible connection that bound all Bazhir to the Voice of the Tribes. “It’s a gift.” 

“A Midwinter gift, Your Majesty?” Zahir arched an eyebrow, wondering if his former knightmaster had once again forgotten that the Bazhir didn’t celebrate this northern holiday since no winter came to the southern desert and the Bazhir calendar didn’t begin or end on the same date the northern one did. Somehow those concepts seemed too elusive for the king to grasp whether he was Voice or not. 

“No.” King Jonathan smiled. “A gift to congratulate you on your knighthood. A gift to celebrate your accomplishment of becoming the first Bazhir knight to serve the realm.” 

“A farewell gift.” Zahir could feel the weight of being the first of his people to achieve knighthood—the solemn obligation of representing them with the honor and pride they deserved—settling about his shoulders. “I can accept that.” 

“Not a farewell gift since I hope we will continue to see each other now that you’re knighted, but one to wish you well,” corrected King Jonathan, smile broadening. “I hope you can accept a present to wish you well.” 

“I suppose I can, sire.” Zahir hid his slight grin with an equally small bow that cast his features into the shadows cast by the flickering candles burning on his nightstand. 

“Good.” King Jonathan waited until Zahir had risen from his bow to offer him a sword that shimmered as only steel from Raven Armory could. As Zahir gaped at first him and then the weapon, he remarked, smooth as the steel in his hand, “I thought you should have a blade from Raven Armory to match your polishing cloth from there.” 

The polishing cloth from Raven Armory had been expensive but worth every gold coin he had spent on it for being a status symbol that granted him the fleeting, surface sensation of blending into the Tortallan nobility that scorned him and his entire race. 

Fingers trembling, Zahir grasped the proffered sword hilt, marveling at how the blade balanced perfectly in his palm as if it had been forged for his hand alone. When he could speak through his suddenly hoarse throat, he croaked, hating how like a frog he sounded, “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Regaining some dignity, he bowed and finished more formally, “I will forever serve you with it.” 

“Then I will be richly rewarded for my gift to you.” King Jonathan clapped Zahir’s shoulder. “Congratulations on your knighthood, Zahir. I know you’ll continue to serve the country with honor and valor.” 

“I’ll make you proud of me, sire.” Zahir bowed, promising himself as much as his king that he wouldn’t make King Jonathan regret for even a heartbeat that he had chosen him for a squire or given him such a beautiful blade. The ties between him and his former knightmaster only seemed to tighten when they should have been cut, but somehow the idea of being bound to the northern king who was also Voice didn’t disturb him as it once would have. 

“You always do.” King Jonathan squeezed Zahir’s shoulder, bestowing comfort that somehow felt more like a burden to never disappoint the ruler of the realm.


End file.
